Love, Natty
by vickitata14
Summary: She's a little young to know what love is, but she thinks she loves Harry. Or at least she think she loved him once. It's been a while, and California and Alaska are worlds apart. When she finally finds him again, everything will be different. Sequel fic for Disney's "Journey of Natty Gann."
1. Prologue

**Hello, Vic here. So I have a mild obsession with young John Cusack, and over spring break I went on a kick, watching like all the movies he was in in the 80s. One was this Disney movie, _The Journey of Natty Gann_ , which was made back when political correctness was not a thing and there could still be swearing in kids' movies. Nevertheless, it was a very cute film, and so I'm writing fanfiction for it. Don't judge. **

**For any of you who know the movie, this is a sequel of sorts. Basically I'm going to chronicle how Natty and Harry find each other again, and if I pull it off to my own satisfaction, they might gain OTP status.**

 **Naturally I do not own these characters or their universe. Enjoy!**

* * *

 _Dear Harry,_

 _I'm leaving for Alaska today. Leaving almost this minute in fact, which is why I don't have time to write more. Don't forget about me. I'll make it out to California someday._

 _Natty_

She wishes she had time. Time to tell how she begged her dad not to go, how she kept dropping hints of work and warmer weather down south. Time to tell how wretched she feels, because she feels like she's leaving him all over again. Time to tell him how she feels about him—but there will never be enough time for that. So she folds the letter, hands it to Marta and hopes it finds Harry somehow.

"Please send it as soon as possible," she begs, her grimy fingers clutching at the other woman's sleeve. The fabric is rough against Natty's cracked skin, but Marta's smile is soft.

"Don't worry—" There's a reason Marta is considered mother to all the camp followers— "I'll hand it to the postman myself when I go down the mountain."

She tucks the paper into her apron pocket and gives it a quick pat before wrapping Natty in her arms. Many of the wives and daughters and sisters and mothers are coming to Alaska with the logging camp, but Marta is eight months pregnant. She's going to stay with her sister in the town below the mountain, while her husband Neil follows the work up north. Natty's father has promised Marta time and again that he'll look after Neil and bring him home safe, but Natty can tell by the way that Marta squeezes her long and tight against the swell of her stomach that the worry is still there. Natty understands. She's carrying worries of her own.

"I'll miss you," she mumbles before pulling away, planting a small kiss on Marta's belly as she does so.

Marta smiles. "Get going. Your dad's waitin' on you."

"You promise you'll send that letter—"

"Yes," Marta laughs, giving her a push. "Now go!"

Natty stumbles slightly over her own feet—the hand-me-down boots from one of the logger's daughters are still too big for her—but she rights herself as she lopes to the truck, where her dad and the other men are waiting in the back. The truck will take them down the mountain to the train, the train will take them to the boat that's waiting in the harbor, and the boat will take them to Alaska. One of the men grabs her under her arms and swings her up into the back of the truck, where she sits beside her dad. He puts his arm around her and squeezes.

"Are you excited, Natty?" he asks, and there's a gleam of adventure in his tired eyes.

She nods, not trusting her voice, and draws her knees to her chest and hugs them tight. The truck grumbles to life as the last of the men jump aboard, and the now nearly abandoned camp begins to grow smaller, appearing to jolt away into the distance. Natty stares long and hard out the back of the truck; if she blinks, a tear might escape. She thinks she can hear a wolf howling in the distance, and suddenly it's all too much. She drops her head into her arms and lets the tears flow.

. . .

 _Dear Harry,_

 _I don't like boats. I liked jumping trains better than being on this boat. My dad doesn't seem to mind but I'm sicker than a dog. We're on our way to Alaska and my dad keeps asking me if I'm excited, but I think excitement is a different kind of stomach ache. I can't wait to be on land again. I won't be able to send this letter until we get there, so if you're reading this, it means I made it. Only paper I have is this blank scrap from an old New Testament, so I gotta stop before I run out of room. I hope California is good and that you're still working. Don't forget about me._

 _Natty_

She doesn't know why she always signs her letters "Don't forget about me." It seems important, somehow. Far away…and there are bound to be other girls in California, and they're bound to like him…Not that she cares. She would just hate to lose a friend. That's why she signs her letters that way. That's all. Anyway, she doesn't have any more time to fret over it, because she barely has time to make it above deck to throw up over the side. She hates boats.

. . .

 _Dear Harry,_

 _We're in Alaska now, and I have a proper address, so you can write me back, if you like. It's cold here, but so beautiful. The land is practically untouched, it almost seems sad to cut down the trees. But it means Dad has work, so I can't complain. Are you still working? I hope so. I hope you're still in California, and getting my letters._

 _Dad and I live in a little shanty in town, he rides out to the forest with the men every morning before dawn. I get up and make him coffee and eggs. I never really knew how to cook before, but now I'm learning all sorts! Maybe I can show you one day. Hopefully by then I won't burn so much. I usually cook beans for supper. Remember when I tried to steal your beans and that's how we became friends? There's a little school in town and Dad wants me to start going. I told him I'd rather work, but he said there's not much work for a little girl and I should get some learning. I'm not so little, I'm 13 now, but I guess it would be nice to learn some stuff. Did you ever get much schooling? I'm supposed to start on Monday, so I wanted to write you before then. I'll be busy once I have school work and chores to do, but the days are so long here I'll probably have a lot of time anyways. Dad says the days'll get real short come fall and winter, on account of being so far north. I guess that's why we're having school in the summer here. I gotta go start supper now, but I'll write again soon. Don't forget about me._

 _Natty_

One nice thing about living in town is that she can mail this letter almost as soon as she finishes it. She folds the paper and addresses it carefully, making sure she gets every number and word right. The beans are soaking, just waiting to be cooked; once she gets back, she'll put them on to boil. She slips on her coat, because even in June it's chilly up here, and then skips the few blocks to the little post office, where a plump woman with a pink blouse and flyaway hair is manning the desk. Natty places the envelope on the counter and jingles a handful of coins nervously in her pocket while she waits for the woman to examine her offering.

"California?" the lady asks.

Natty nods. "Yes ma'am."

"That's three cents, miss. Now who's in California?" She examines the name on the envelope and her eyes twinkle. "A sweetheart?"

Caught off guard, Natty puts down three pennies with rather more force than she intended. "No," she says emphatically.

The lady raises an eyebrow and smiles slightly.

"Not really," she amends, feeling suddenly confused. "I mean, he's just a friend—"

"All right." The lady laughs and waves away Natty's babbling. "Well I'm sure—Harry—will be pleased to get your letter anyway."

Natty blushes. "I hope so," she mumbles. "Thank you!"

She ducks outside and runs home. The sun is finally starting to set, which means her dad will be on his way home, and she wants to have hot food waiting when he gets back. She wonders briefly if Harry is having beans for dinner tonight too. She doesn't know why he would be, but the thought makes her feel closer to him, and there's a pleasant warmth in her stomach for the rest of the night that isn't just from dinner. Her dad looks up mid-meal and asks her what she's smiling about. She shrugs.

"Nothing," she says. "I just like beans."

. . .

 _Dear Harry,_

 _I was so glad to finally get a letter from you! It must take a long time for mail to reach us here, so don't think I'm upset. It's just good to hear from you. I'm glad you have good work and comfortable living now. Dad is still working, but it's starting to get colder here and most of our money is going to buy fuel for the stove. I keep trying to get Dad to let me start working, but he still says no. But I guess school has been good so it's all right. I can do big sums now. Teacher says they're not all sums, they're also multiplication and division but it's easier to just say sums. I'm quite good at them. I'm also good at spelling, I have the highest marks in the class. Teacher says my grammar could do with work though. What do you think? I think my grammar's fine, but I guess teachers know._

 _Dad says we might be moving again, further inland. I don't know when. I hope there's still mail there. I'll let you know. Don't forget about me._

 _Natty_

. . .

 _Dear Harry,_

 _We're moving once the winter is over. My fingers are almost too cold to hold a pen. If you've written me recently, I'm sorry I haven't gotten it, we've all been snowed in. I don't know how long it will be until I can send this. I hope it's nice and warm in California. Don't forget about me._

 _Natty_

 _. . ._

 _Dear Harry,_

 _I got two letters from you today, and I'm mailing you two in return. It's finally spring, which means we're moving again. I don't want to, but that's where there's money, so we have to. I'm worried about Dad. He had pneumonia in February, and he hasn't been the same since. He says he's fine but I wish he wouldn't go. I'm sorry to dump all this on you but I don't want to tell Dad I'm worried. He'll say I'm turning into my Ma, which makes us both kinda sad. I wish I had more to say, but winter was pretty boring. I'll try and write again when we move, but I can't promise anything. It'll just be the logging crew out in the woods, I feel like it'll get awful lonely. At least I'll have Dad. Even if I don't write for a while, don't forget about me!_

 _Natty_

Natty hands letters and a handful of pennies to the lady behind the counter one last time.

"I'm moving further inland," she says. "Do you know if there's mail there?"

The lady shakes her head in reply. "'Fraid I don't. Worried Harry will think you've forgotten him?"

Natty blushes, looking down at her dirty finger nails. "No. He knows I wouldn't. And anyway, I've told him I'm moving. He'll know I might not be able to write."

"Of course," the lady replies with a reassuring nod. "Have a safe trip. I'll miss seeing your bright young face!"

Natty nods brusquely, then turns to run from the building before the tears can escape. She cries into the beans as she cooks supper; she cries into her suitcase as she packs her few worldly possessions. She's not sure why she's crying. She guesses it's because part of her hoped that the next time they moved, it might be to California. She hears her dad step heavily through the front door and she dries her eyes; no need for him to find her sniffling over silly dreams.

The next morning, before the sun is even in the sky, they're all bundled up once more in the backs of trucks. Natty is tucked up next to her father and staring outside, wondering if she's looking towards California. Probably not. Her dad places a reassuring hand on her shoulder and pulls her against him. It's supposed to be a long drive, and he tells her she should get some sleep. Soon she can hear him snoring softly, but she remains awake a while longer, wondering if there's mail inland.


	2. Chapter 1

_Dear Harry,_

 _Tomorrow I'm fourteen years old. I've decided Alaska is no place to spend a birthday. There's nothing but beans and coffee and salt pork, and everybody's sick. Dad's been coughing again. He says he's fine but I don't believe him._

 _. . ._

 _Dear Harry,_

 _Well today was my birthday and I was right. We ate beans for dinner and Dad is sick. Oh Harry, I hate Alaska!_

A particularly loud and rattling cough from the other room made Natty look up from the page crammed with writing. Her letters to Harry had taken on the form of a diary more than anything; a long time could pass before a someone made the long drive out to one of the towns for supplies, and so Natty wrote multiple short letters on one or two pieces of paper when time allowed, then folded it up and sent it and a handful of pennies off with the appointed driver. She had, by this time, written countless little letters in this format, but had not yet been rewarded with a response. And it had been months.

Another cough, and Natty pushed her chair back from the little table and stood. Her head spun a bit with the sudden movement and she rubbed her eyes. It was getting too dark for writing anyway. So she carefully folded the paper and slipped it inside one of her school books, then made her way quietly to the other room, where her father lay, still coughing.

Sol Gann was a strong man tired out by hard work and the strain of raising a daughter on next to nothing. So although his arms, lying limply over the blankets tucked up to his chest, were ropey with veins and muscles, he face was drawn, pale, and twisted with the pain of a constant cough. It had only started today, so Natty wasn't worried about pneumonia quite yet, but it hovered in the back of her mind just as she hovered in the doorway, watching her father struggle to breathe evenly, to soothe the cough through sheer willpower.

"You okay, Dad?" she asked softly, and he opened his eyes and smiled at her.

"'Course I am, Natty."

He said it as cheerfully as possible, but the effort cost him his hard-won peace, and he began to cough again. There was cup of water on his bedside table, and Natty hurried to pick it up. The glass was still cold—hardly surprising in this climate—and she held it to her father's lips as she sat down gently on the edge of the bed. He drank slowly, savoring the way it slipped down his throat, and they sat like that for a long time, Natty with one hand on his back and the other beginning to tremble as it held that glass up. Finally Sol's hand slipped over her own, warm and rough and gentle, relieving her of her burden, and setting it back down on the table.

"Natty, you worry too much for a girl your age," he sighed, lifting his hand to stroke her cheek.

She wrinkled her nose but leaned into his touch. "I'm fourteen!"

"That's right!" His eyes shone suddenly, and Natty was afraid he'd start coughing again from excitement. "I almost forgot to give you your present!"

She tried her best to look nonchalant as he reached beneath his pillow and pulled out a rectangular package wrapped in brown paper and string. Suddenly she remembered this package; it had come back in the last supply run almost two months ago.

"Dad!" she scolded, even as she began to work at the knot in the string. "You told me this was new suspenders—oh, Dad!"

She stopped with a small gasp when she saw what the package contained. Sol was looking at her with a twinkle in his eye, and she threw her arms around him as gently as she could.

"Thank you, Daddy," she whispered in his ear. "Thank you."

. . .

 _Dear Harry,_

 _Notice something different about this letter? You better, 'cause I'm writing on real proper letter paper now! Dad bought me a whole box for my birthday, and a fancy pen he called a fountain pen. I've got no idea how he found them, but I don't have to write on blank pages from text books no more_ —here the last two words were scratched out— _anymore, and I'm so pleased. I hope_ _your pl_ —another scratch mark— _you're_ _pleased too. Haven't heard from you in a while, but I suppose it takes a long time for mail to get here. I hope you're doing all right in California. Don't forget about me._

 _Natty_

. . .

 _Dear Harry,_

 _I finally got a letter from you today, and a whole bunch should be on their way to you now. George drove to town and took all my letters to the post office, and came back with one from you! I was sorry to hear about your job though. If money's tight, don't you go wasting it on letters to me, you hear? Listen to me, sounding like a regular mama hen. I suppose it comes from being the woman of the house. Ain't_ —pen scratches— _Isn't that a funny thought? Still it's all right, I guess. I can cook so many things now, when I have the stuff for it. And I'm good at making it last. Maybe it'll last until the next time someone drives to town this time. Dad's finally better, and back at work, and I'm glad but it's frightful lonely around the house. Days are getting long now and Dad's gone for ages so I sit at home and mend things to pass the time when I'm not cooking. I'm not great at it but Dad don't_ —even more pen scratches and a frustrated blot— _ugh, doesn't. Doesn't doesn't doesn't. I hate knowing grammar because now I know how bad I am at it. Now stop laughing at me, and don't say you're not because I know you are. Anyway. Dad doesn't mind, and it's something to do besides cook and read and write. Not that I mind those things, it's just I get bored. Well. I better get started on dinner, it's finally getting dark. I hope you find more work soon, if you haven't by the time you get this. I'm sure you will though. Don't forget about me._

 _Natty_

After a moment's thought, she scratched at the last sentence until it was nothing but an enormous blot. Harry would see it and know what it was, she supposed, but it seemed such a childish thing to write, now that she was fourteen and Harry still remembered to write. Maybe he would see how grown up she was, for scratching out those words. Or maybe he wouldn't care. She had always assumed that the closing sentence was nothing but a little joke between them, but the more she wrote it (and the more Harry never used it in reply), the more petulant it sounded, and she decided it was time for it to go. So she waited for the blot to dry, then tucked the letter away in its box, which she placed in the bottom of her dresser drawer before heading to the kitchen to start dinner.

Just as she was laying the table, her dad came home. He stamped his feet in the doorway, ridding his boots of dirt and tree bark, then sat down heavily at the table.

"Dad, wash your hands," Natty reprimanded lightheartedly as Sol reached for a biscuit, but it was as if he didn't hear her. He only broke off a piece and put it in his mouth, ignoring the steam that still flowed copiously from the fresh-baked morsel.

"Dad? Dad, what's wrong?"

He finally shook himself from his reverie, only just seeming to realize exactly how hot the biscuit in his hand was, and he dropped it back on the plate.

"Dad?" Natty prompted once more.

His thin face seemed even more sunken and worn as he looked at her, and he took her hand in his own, whether for her comfort or his, Natty wasn't sure. Probably both.

"Patrick took a fall today," he said heavily, his grip on her hand tightening.

Natty gasped softly, and her eyes began to sting with tears. Patrick was a topper, and even though everybody knew it was a dangerous job, everybody was still shocked every time there was an accident. Sol wasn't finished yet, though.

"By some miracle," he continued, "He wasn't hurt too badly. Couple fractures and a lot of bruises, but he'll be back at work in a few weeks."

"Well that's good news at least," Natty began, daring to pull her hand away and stir the soup so it stayed evenly heated. "And nobody else was hurt?"

The only reply she received was a long silence, and the dread began to tighten around her stomach like an iron fist. She looked up and her father's head was bowed over his folded hands, which shook violently.

"No," she whispered, the tears returning with a vengeance. "Who?"

Sol rubbed his hands over his face as though trying to clean away the memory.

"Neil was too close," he said in a ghastly murmur. "He was dead before he hit the ground."

Natty's legs couldn't hold her up anymore. She sunk down at her father's feet, her eyes suddenly dry, her stomach suddenly an empty pit that seemed to be dragging her in on herself. Images of Marta, thin and dirty, but aglow with the light of pregnancy, flashed through her mind, and she could've sworn she heard a baby crying. Neil would never go home to his family. His child—God! Natty didn't even if it was a boy or a girl—would never have a father. And Natty wrapped her arms around her father's knees as she finally began to sob. His coarse, heavy work pants prickled with pine needles and smelled like smoke, but she clung to them as though for dear life. Then his hands were on her shoulders and he pulled her up to sit in his lap like she hadn't done in years, and she cried into his shoulder until she fell asleep.

. . .

 _Dear Harry,_

 _I think I've told you this before, but I hate Alaska. I don't think I'd mind it so much if Dad weren't a logger, it's actually quite beautiful up here. But there are so many accidents. Dad is topping right now because one of the toppers had a fall the other day and Dad's done it before so they asked him. It's only for a few weeks until Patrick is well again but I still hate it. I wish we were somewhere with safer work. Maybe Dad could work in an office, or at a mechanic's shop or a gas station. Anything but this damn logging. Even if you're not a topper, things can still go wrong. Trees fall differently than you expect and people are sometimes in the wrong place at the wrong time and oh Harry, how I wish we were in California. Besides, then maybe I could see you again. I miss you._

 _Natty_

She wasn't sure what prompted her to add those final words. It had been an impulse; she'd written them almost without thinking. She deliberated over them a while, but decided to keep them. After all, they were true.

. . .

A few weeks later, after the next supply run into town, Natty stood in the kitchen, hands shaking, as she perused the letter that had come along with the sack of flour, cans of beans and tub of lard.

 _Dear Natty,_

 _I know I haven't heard back from you yet, but I figured you'd want to know that I'm leaving California. I still haven't found work, but there's rumors of some up further North. So I'm gonna ride the rails to Portland and try my luck. My landlady's a nice enough gal and she said she'd forward anything from Alaska to an uncle she has up there. So I'll stop by when I get there. I wouldn't want to miss any of your letters._

 _Anyway, I'm headed north tonight. Almost like I'm headed to Alaska the long way round. They say Canada's lovely this time of year, so if I ever fancy a holiday trip, I'll let you know. Stay safe up there, kid. I'll see you._

 _Harry_


End file.
